


From Rauros to Isengard

by Ithiliana



Series: The Roads of Middle-earth [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithiliana/pseuds/Ithiliana





	From Rauros to Isengard

_ **Edoras, February 25, 3019** _

Éowyn slid through the kitchen, leaving through the door at the back of the room, one of many that surrounded the Great Hall where Théoden King held court. When he had been capable of holding court. Now, the Hall was dark, and few people attended court. Her uncle sat there all day and most of the night in a stupor attended only by Grima.

Thinking of her uncle's situation made her slam the door, a move she regretted when people working in the courtyard behind the kitchen looked up in surprise. She smiled and hurried past them, telling herself that neither the King nor his counselor would dream of her using this escape.

If they thought of her at all, they thought she was either in her room sewing or weaving or in the kitchen, overseeing the preparation of food, the necessary cleaning, or the storage of foodstuffs brought to the King from the countryside around Edoras. And she did do all of that--and more--as the only woman of her rank in her uncle's house.

But sometimes, as today, she had to escape for a while from the cage that love and duty had built around her.

Sliding through the gate of the courtyard and down the path that led to the stables, Éowyn was grateful for the people who made her escape possible. The women who worked in the kitchen had known what she'd been up to since she was a child. They had covered for her when uncle or counselor asked for her. Not that her uncle asked after her anymore, she thought bitterly.

Gratitude for Éomer, Elfhelm and Théodred who had allowed her to join Éomer in the training given males in the Mark when she was growing into womanhood. For some of the other Riders in Elfhelm's éored who were related to or married to the women in the kitchen and who shared their gear with her, trained with her, looked the other way when necessary, and confirmed the story of "Dernhelm" the young man from far in the Eastemnet who had lost his family and come to Edoras to serve the King.

Éowyn entered the stables through the back door. Her horse Windfola was in his box stall, and, hidden in a battered chest at the back, was her gear. Chain mail, helmet, jerkin, leggings, leather surcoat. She shed her housedress, the brown overdress and blue tunic pulled easily off and quickly folded away. Then, ducking away from Windfola's nuzzling, she donned the gear and braided her hair in the style worn by the men, quickly tying the braid off with a leather strap. The helm covered her head, its nose guard and wings shielding down around her face. The gear disguised her well enough to deceive most around her.

Saddling and bridling Windfola took even less time than donning her own gear, and she was soon unlatching the door to his stall and leading him out the door. Scenting the air, eager for exercise, he danced beside her, and she slapped his neck affectionately, then swung into the saddle.

She kept him on a tight rein as they trotted down the path that led to the main gate. The children playing around their houses and their mothers would not thank any Rider who was careless inside the walls of Edoras.

Coming to the open gate, guarded by several men, she reined in, seeing a group of Riders coming up the hill, fast. Shading her eyes, standing up in the stirrups, she watched them approach.

She recognized her brother's crest, the white horsetail. And the armour of the man he held in front of him, battered and bloody.

Shocked, she waited for them to come through the gate. Seeing her, Éomer paused briefly.

"Dernhelm, get Éowyn for me, will you? It's Théodred, he's hurt."

Éomer didn't wait for her nod, kicking his horse back into a trot and heading toward Meduseld.

Éowyn turned Windfola back and returned to the stables. She had to get back as quickly as possible.

* * * * * * *

Sitting by Théodred's bed, having done all she could to staunch the bleeding and bandage the shattered flesh, Éowyn held his hand.

She'd had years of experience nursing Riders injured in battle with Orcs, and she was sure her cousin was dying. But she would stay by his side as long as she could. In love and gratitude. For all he had done for her after her parents died, when she was a lonely girl growing up in Meduseld.

Éowyn had learned to ride on horses who had long served and who lived now in the best pasturage near their home until they died. The Rohirrim took care of their horses, all their horses, neither killing the old ones nor turning them out to starve in the Wild, for the Riders loved their horses as they loved their kin. Man and horse worked hard, all riding to war if necessary. The grief for a fallen steed was like that for a fallen comrade, and those who survived the battles were treated well, supported by until they passed into the halls of the ancestors and their bodies buried beneath the green grass of the plains.

One of her most treasured memories was being tossed up on the back of a great dappled steed, grey hair going white in places, with a broad back and gentle gait. Holding onto the coarse hair of the mane tightly at first, she was afraid she would fall. Her mother rode behind her, encouraging the horse to trot gently. That was one of the last times she could remember doing anything with her mother.

Soon after, her father was killed by Orcs. And her mother died when she was seven. She loved her uncle, her mother's brother, whom she grew to realize was the King, and Théodred, her cousin, the tall grave young man who was so gentle to her when she cried for her parents.

But she came to realize that, because his Queen Elfhild had died in childbirth, Théoden tended to treat her as some lowland flower, one that would die in the winds of the mountains unless carefully tended, unlike the native symbelmynë that grew wild. His care for her meant her uncle wanted to restrict her movements as she grew into womanhood, and as King, he could do so.

Éowyn had resisted, watching her brother leave for training every morning after breakfast. She followed him out, demanding to go riding, to spend the day outside with him. As she grew taller, the older people whispered about her grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach, who had came from Gondor and was known as "Steelsheen."

Only Théodred understood and supported her, pulling her up on his horse in front of her, riding with her every day out to the fields. As a child, she spent hours each day riding.

But as she grew, as her breasts swelled and her menses started, her uncle started to try to restrict her to the kitchen and the bower, to keep her from wearing her brother's hand me downs and take to wearing gowns.

After a season, she had chafed, become impatient. Théodred had found her crying one day, coaxed the reason for her unhappiness out of her, and talked to Elfhelm. They did not wish to directly oppose the King's will, but Théodred had helped her create "Dernhelm," a distant young cousin of her father's family in the east Marches. Dernhelm could train with Éomer under Elfhelm and Théodred. Dernhelm had been her escape, and the tension between her and her uncle had disappeared as he had seen her apparently happily settle into her role.

Nearly a dozen years had passed since then. She could no longer go daily to the fields and the training ground, but she did several times a week. Only hard physical activity, so less demanding emotionally than the work expected of women, gave her the strength to sit calmly in the hall at night, to carry the mead cup to the decaying King, to watch Wormtongue drip his poison into the King's ear.

Now, watching her cousin dying slowly, she wondered in a haze of grief how she would find the strength to continue.

 

_ **Emyn Muil, Eastemnet, February 26-30, 3019** _

_ **As related in "From Rivendell to Rauros, after the battle with the Orcs and Merry and Pippin's capture at Parth Galen, the Fellowship split. Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli choose to track the Orcs to try to rescue the two young hobbits.** _

Boromir stopped, breathing hard, the darkness in front of his eyes deeper than the night would allow. He did not know why the others had halted in the cold hour before dawn, was only glad they had. He heard them talking, briefly, then Aragorn came to him.

"Rest a while," Aragorn told him. "Here."

Aragorn shed his pack, took Boromir's arm, and helped him to sit, then lie down, resting his head on the pack. Aragorn covered him with his own elven cloak and returned to Legolas and Gimli.

Boromir lay, his breathing ragged, hardly feeling the cold ground underneath him. They had left Parth Galen, climbing up steep slopes, soon leaving the trees behind them. Under the clear sky in which stars shone brightly and the waxing moon shed a wavering light, they had scaled the stony land.

Now, Boromir lay useless while the others debated their way. All he could do was rest and hope not to slow his Companions down, Boromir thought. And with that thought, sleep took him.

A warm hand on his forehead woke him. The pre-dawn light was glimmering in the east, and Aragorn knelt beside him.

Boromir struggled to rise, unable to use his left arm.

"Wait," Aragorn told him, pressing him down.

As Boromir lay back, Aragorn pushed the cloaks aside, opened the neck of Boromir's tunic. Slid his hands inside the tunic, one on Boromir's shoulder, the other on his back .

A tingling heat rose in Boromir's body, most intense at his healing wound, but spilling out like water falling from a height, cascading down, frightening and yet thrilling. Boromir felt himself hardening, gasping under Aragorn's touch.

He seemed to see light around Aragorn, around his hands, more than the sunrise would cause. Suddenly Aragorn released him, pulling his hands free of the tunic but falling forward, catching himself with one hand on his pack, the other sliding down Boromir's chest. Boromir shuddered, hoping Aragorn would not see his arousal.

Aragorn sat next to Boromir, opened his pack, pulled out two wrapped cakes of waybread. "Eat this," he said.

"It's too much," Boromir protested.

"You're healing, you need the extra food, or your body will consume itself. When I try to speed the healing of your wound, that affects your body. You must eat."

Boromir looked at Aragorn's face, tired in the growing light, shadowed, did not argue further. Reaching out to touch Aragorn's arm, Boromir said, "It drains you as well. Are you eating enough?"

Aragorn smiled at him. "Enough. Let us go."

When Boromir rose, he saw the dead bodies of the Orcs. He hoped that the violence implied by their presence did not mean Merry or Pippin had been hurt.

They ate as they followed the trail down the ridge, pausing only to refill their water bottles.

* * * * * * *

Boromir lay back, arm across his eyes. He was not as weak as he had been at their earlier halt, but the knowledge that he was slowing them down burned inside him.

The day's journey replayed itself in flashes in his mind. The red dawn, standing on the high cliff wall, seeing the glimpse of the White Mountains of his home, homesickness for Gondor mixed with fear for his father, wondering what Frodo and Faramir was doing.

The climb down, stone harsh under his boots. It had been a relief to step onto the soft green. He knew Rohan well though not this part. He had spent several seasons here when he was younger. Dully, he realized it had been ten years ago. Éomer would be twenty-seven now.

The leaf pin lying in Aragorn's dirt-stained hand, the brightness of the jewel shining in the sun. Boromir's fingers sought the one at his throat. They all wore them, gift of Celeborn and Galdriel, immortal leaves of Lothlorien caught in precious metal and gems.

Throughout the day, his constant sight had been the booted feet of Gimli in front of him. Legolas and Aragorn were well out in front. Dwarves were strong, Boromir had learned. Gimli was now building a fire, boiling water, while Boromir lay here too weak to move. But Boromir knew from the earlier part of the journey that he should have been able to out run him.

Boromir felt Aragorn's hands on his neck, opening his tunic, and shivered. Grasped his hand, opened his eyes to see Aragorn's weariness, his face drawn, bones more prominent.

"You cannot keep doing this," Boromir said. "You are pouring your energy out, two, three times a day, for naught. Leave me behind. You will travel faster. Have a better chance of rescuing Merry and Pippin."

Aragorn sat back on his heels, hands on his knees. Boromir felt chilled, looking into his eyes.

After a moment of silence, Aragorn spoke, his voice low but cold. "I will not lose you. I will not leave you. You waste our time thus, time that could be spent Healing you, or in pursuit of the Orcs. You may wish to die, Boromir, but your friends need you. You do not have the luxury of giving up."

Boromir stung, could say nothing. He lay back, allowed Aragorn to slide his hands inside the tunic. Shut his eyes, feeling himself harden sooner, almost painfully, at the warm hands and the power of the Healing. By the time Aragorn had finished, Boromir was shaking, sweating.

He felt Aragorn's hand on his cheek. A whisper. "I am sorry."

Boromir did not open his eyes until Aragorn had left his side. He wondered if he'd be able to rest at all before he would have to rise and continue the run across the Rohan.

To be con't…

2  
Boromir woke, feeling stronger. Apparently he had slept for some time. He rose to one arm, seeing that it was a cloudy morning, that the sun was rising. Aragorn was lying on the ground, pressed flat, listening. Legolas and Gimli were talking quietly.

Aragorn rose, came to Boromir's side. "All is confusion," he said. "The sound of the Orcs is distant and confused, but I hear horses, galloping."

"They have outrun us because of me," Boromir said.

Aragorn sank to his knees beside him. "No," he said. "Legolas, Gimli and I argued last night, but all agreed that we could not track the Orcs safely across the plains in the dark. There is too great a chance that a small party could leave with Merry and Pippin. And none of us can run day and night without food or sleep."

Boromir had to agree with Aragorn's logic, and he felt less guilty.

And because of that, all the more aroused when Aragorn slid his hands under his tunic, helping him to Heal. Boromir shut his eyes, clenched his teeth, and endured, not wanting to slow them more.

After eating, the four set out across the green fields of Rohan. The day passed slowly as they walked and ran, speaking little, saving their breath for their hunting. The trail of the Orcs was easy to follow, the tender grass beaten down in a wide path. Boromir was heartened to feel a little stronger when they finally stopped for the night, unable to see clearly.

Later that night, Boromir lay tossing under his cloak. Above his head the new moon was shrouded by clouds, and a chill wind seemed to find every gap in his clothing. Even more distracting was the itching in his shoulder. Boromir knew the feel of a healing wound, but whatever Aragorn had been doing to speed the healing resulted in a burning sensation. His skin felt as if biting ants were burrowing under it. Boromir had scratched, once, and immediately regretted it, feeling the burn spread wider.

Now he fought to keep from scratching again.

Finally, Boromir gave up the idea of sleep. He sat. He saw Legolas and Gimli lying silent and unmoving under their cloaks, and Aragorn sitting not far away.

Quietly, Boromir rose to his feet, slinging his cloak around his shoulders, and walked to Aragorn's side. Aragorn turned his head at the first sound of his footsteps, and nodded in welcome.

Boromir sat by his side, shifting so that he could see Aragorn but also watch the land behind him, an old habit.

In response, Aragorn moved slightly as well, watching what Boromir could not see.

"Something is wrong in this land," Boromir said. "I lived in Rohan several seasons some ten years ago. There should be herds and the herdsmen in the Eastemnet even in winter."

Aragorn nodded. "I too have lived here," he said. "And do not like this silence."

Boromir did not want to remember his time in Rohan too clearly, especially what had happened with Éomer.

"When were you in Rohan?" he asked. Aragorn had a habit of mystery, Boromir thought, saying that he had been in Minas Tirith or Rohan but not saying when or for how long.

Aragorn looked at him, his face shadowed in the fitful light of the moon. "Long ago," he said.

Boromir knew that the old Numenorean houses were long-lived, and he began to wonder just how old Aragorn was. But it was not something one could demand to know if a friend did not wish to speak of it.

Without thinking, Boromir slid his hand under his tunic, scratched, and then cursed. He could feel the heat spreading and knew he had made it worse.

"What's wrong?" Aragorn asked.

"My shoulder," Boromir admitted. "Not pain, but it…itches."

Aragorn leaned forward. "Let me," he said, sliding his hand under the tunic.

Boromir tensed, but unlike earlier Healings, the only sensation was of coolness sliding across his shoulder, soothing the heat and itching. He sighed in relief.

"That's actually a good sign," Aragorn said, sitting back. "Although not pleasant."

Boromir relaxed, enjoying the sensation of being without pain of any sort for the first time in days. He sat silent under the stars, sharing the watch with Aragorn, content.

The next day was cloudy, the sun hidden and weak. They ran across the grey-green fields, not pausing to eat, driven by fear for Merry and Pippin. Aragorn and Legolas ran well in front. Boromir managed to keep pace with Gimli. They had entered the downs and only reluctantly accepted the need to sleep that night.

A red sunrise woke them early the next morning. As they stood looking over the land, seeing the dark mass of Fangorn and the last peaks of the Misty Mountains, Legolas cried a warning. Riders were approaching.

As they waited, Boromir drew the hood of his cloak up over his head. He did not wish to be recognized. It was only when they were surrounded by the Rohirrim, lances at the ready, and Gimli replied angrily to Éomer's challenge that Boromir realized that this confrontation could lead to violence. After so long traveling with Legolas and Gimli, he had forgotten his earlier fears of them, fears that he knew were widespread in Gondor and Rohan. He no longer thought of them as "Elf" and "Dwarf," but simply as companions. He needed to act.

Boromir stepped forward, pushing the hood of his cloak back.

"Boromir!"

With that glad shout, Éomer handed off his lance to the Rider next to him and leaped off his horse in a single movement. He hugged Boromir. Shocked at such an affectionate greeting, Boromir hesitated, then returned the embrace.

Éomer had grown taller, matured into a powerful warrior. When Boromir and Faramir had stayed in Edoras on their journey to Imladris, they had not seen Éomer who had been out hunting Orcs.

Éomer released Boromir, stepped back, smiling. "Glad I am to see you! We feared you dead when one of the horses we gave you and your brother came back riderless. Does this mean you have succeeded in your strange quest? Théodred told me of your dream."

Boromir was relieved to hear that the horse he had lost at Greyflood had returned home safely. But he did not want to talk about his dream or journey here in front of so many.

"I hope so," he said. "But we are in haste. Two members of our Company were taken by a party of Orcs."

Éomer looked grave. "I fear I have bad news for you all, then. Let me have my éored withdraw. We must speak together where none can hear us."

* * * * * * *  
_**February 30-March 8, 3019. After they meet in Eastemnet and Boromir and Éomer speak, he trusts them with horses--Hasufel, Arod, and Fainala--although he warns them that the Rohirrim left none alive when they caught the Orcs outside Fangorn Forest. Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli ride to the scene of the battle, find signs that the hobbits escape into Fangorn Forest, meet Gandalf the White, and then are led by him to Edoras where he heals Théoden.**_

 

Boromir left the Great Hall after eating. While the hot food was welcome after days of _lembas_ and water, he felt stifled inside, crushed by the people around him, wincing as noise of their talk echoed in the lofty room.

Outside, he paused upon the terrace. The sound of the stream was loud in the hush of evening. Stars were appearing, the sky a dark yet luminous blue. He gazed through the clear air at the mountains looming to the south. Ered Nimrais, mountains he knew from home.

He needed to think. The noise, heat, and smells of the feast inside were too much for him. But he did not want to linger here where he could be too easily found. He walked down the steps through the gathering dusk, down the hill between the dark houses, and found a bench in a small courtyard sheltered from the wind that had blown constantly since they'd arrived at Edoras.

He sat, the smooth wood beneath and behind him a comfortable support. He was soothed by the simple reality of the bench, smoothed his hand over the arm.

Ever since they had met Gandalf in Fangorn stepping out of a dazzle of white light that tore apart everything Boromir had believed, he had felt as if he could not breathe. As if he were waking to a new world, a world of strange events and rules. He did not like the feeling. But it kept growing.

Gandalf….**the White**. Returned from the dead, or somehow born anew, Boromir did not know. He knew a little of the wizards, enough to know that the colours meant something, to realize that Gandalf was challenging Saruman who had forsaken all previous alliances with Rohan and Gondor to ally himself with the Nameless Enemy.

While Gandalf had spoken little in public at Imladris about what had happened with Saruman, Boromir knew there had been an earlier conflict between the two. Saruman sending Orcs out raiding in an attempt to capture the Ring was another clear signal of his treachery.

Boromir rubbed his shoulder, reacting more to the memory of his wound than actual pain. The Orcs he'd fought had been different than ones he'd faced before. They looked alike, lacking the individuality of features that the Mordor Orcs they had fought at Osgiliath had. And the Orcs at Parth Galen had all worn the White Hand. Boromir agreed with Éomer who had apparently seen and been imprisoned for speaking of Saruman's treachery before they had arrived at Edoras.

Boromir shifted uneasily on the bench. He was sure that Éomer's 's decision to trust them with horses, a decision made in part because of Boromir's presence, may have been another reason for his imprisonment. But when Gandalf had healed Théoden in sight of all, Wormtongue had been banished and Éomer set free.

That brought him back to Gandalf. Seeing him summon and ride Shadowfax without bridle or saddle had been another shock. During his earlier visits to Rohan, Boromir had learned a little about the _Mearas_, enough to know that one would never choose to be ridden by any…human.

Finally, Boromir came to the heart of his problem. He had wished to think that the wizards were only human, perhaps having a talent akin to those of the Elves but not so different from Men. Many in Gondor half believed, half mocked the idea of such talents. Boromir had seen Mithrandir and Saruman often during his childhood, coming and going in Minas Tirith, though never together, he realized. Both were apparently just crotchety old men who spent hours in the archives and closeted with his father, Saruman more than Mithrandir. But that childhood image was no comfort now.

The one in white he had ridden behind and had watched heal the ailing King in his Hall was no longer just the Mithrandir of his childhood. Some Power wore the flesh of an old man but was no more constrained by it than Boromir was by his cloak or tunic. Boromir closed his eyes, breathed deeply of the cool night air.

He had to accept this new world, had to learn, or it would be like going into battle untrained. He had accepted Aragorn as the true descendent of a line of Kings surviving centuries in obscurity, had seen his Healing powers. An old verse sounded in his ears, The hands of the King/are the hands of a Healer.

He had finally accepted the that power of the Ring was both great and evil, though he had nearly lost himself in learning that lesson. Now, he had to accept, finally, that there was another kind of Power in this war. And that while a warrior might have a role to play, it was clearly not the warrior's hand that would determine the outcome.

Finally, Boromir rose from the bench and returned to the hall, to the small room he was sharing with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

* * * * * * *

When Boromir came to the Hall the next morning, it was nearly empty. Only a few older men and women sat at the tables. Boromir had slept late last this morning, waking to find the others already gone.

After breaking his fast, Boromir asked Háma where the training grounds were. It had been days since Boromir had the chance to practice. He tried not to think of his last practice with Merry and Pippin. Gandalf had assured them that the two young hobbits were safe although he refused to give them much more information.

Háma gave him careful directions. Boromir found the training grounds easily and stood a few moments, enjoying the fresh air, watching the men at work. The Rohirrim trained to fight both on horseback and on the ground, with bows and with knives and swords. All the men present were already partnered.

Just as Boromir was getting ready to leave, another man arrived, swinging easily off a great grey horse and dropping its rein. Admirably trained as all Rohan's horses were, the horse stood calmly, hipshot, obviously prepared to wait until his rider needed him.

This man's gear was better than the others there, and a second look told Boromir that this was a youth, not a man full grown. Still, if he was willing to spar, it would be better than nothing.

Boromir nodded a greeting which was returned somewhat shyly he thought.

"I was hoping to practice this morning," Boromir said. "If you are free, would you be willing to work with me?"

The youth nodded. "Certainly, Lord Boromir," he said.

"Call me Boromir. And you are?"

"Dernhelm."

They entered the training ground. After stretching and limbering up, they faced each other, each with a blunted training sword and shield. Boromir began slowly, not certain of Darnel's abilities, but he was pleasantly surprised.

Although Dernhelm was not as strong as some, he was quick, focused, and gave the sense of determination. And he had been well trained.

The bout went well, lasting longer than Boromir had thought it would. He found himself getting breathless, sweating more than he ought to be. Dernhelm pressed forward, moving more quickly, and Boromir found himself retreating.

Then it happened. Turning to parry a thrust, Boromir was blinded momentarily by the sun and misjudged the distance and angle, allowing Dernhelm to make a solid hit. Unfortunately the hit was on Boromir's left shoulder.

Boromir stepped back, disengaging, pointing his sword down, letting his shield slip out of tingling fingers. The healed wound had all but stopped hurting, but Darnel's hit had sent a shock down his arm. The heavy shield pained him. The youth was stronger than he looked.

"My lord?" Dernhelm had stepped back as well, dropping his sword, looking anxious from what Boromir could see of his face behind the old fashioned helm that covered a good deal of it.

"It's nothing," Boromir said. "An old wound. It was a good hit, lad."

Dernhelm smiled, relieved, and stepped forward, retrieving Boromir's shield for him.

"A very good hit indeed."

Boromir turned, seeing Aragorn leaning against the low wall that surrounded the training area. He was smiling, wearing only a loose red shirt and his leggings and was unarmed. Boromir thought that Aragorn looked more at ease than he had in days, another result of Gandalf's return perhaps.

"I was lucky," Dernhelm said, handing the shield to Boromir who nodded his thanks.

"Aragorn, this is Dernhelm."

Aragorn said, "Did we meet last night?"

Dernhelm shook his head, looking down at the ground. Boromir thought his obvious awe of Aragorn was appealing.

Aragorn, though, smiled, and said, "I am sure that we spoke last night. In the Hall, after dinner."

Dernhelm said, "No, my lord. Forgive me, I must leave now." Without looking directly at either Boromir or Aragorn, Dernhelm left the training ground. Grasping his horse's rein, he mounted in one smooth motion, and trotted off.

Aragorn turned to watch Dernhelm until he was out of sight, then looked at Boromir. "And you need to come with me," Aragorn said. "Théoden has called a Council. We must attend."

Boromir sighed, returning the practice sword to the nearby rack. "Very well," he said. It had been pleasant not to think about the larger problems they all faced for a few moments.

He followed Aragorn back to Meduseld, entering through a back door which opened onto a dark passage lit only by a few torches in sconces on the wall.

Outside a narrow door, Aragorn halted.

"How is your shoulder?" he asked.

Boromir had hoped Aragorn had not noticed. "Fine," he said.

"In here," Aragorn opened the door and gestured Boromir in.

Boromir hesitated, then walked inside. They probably did not have time to argue. He found himself in a small bathing room.

Aragorn followed him in, came around to face him, placing his right hand on Boromir's left shoulder.

Boromir reached up, grasped the hand, pulling it away despite Aragorn's resistance. Bringing the warm hand to his lips, Boromir held it firmly, kissed it, half allegiance to a lord, half a promise of sex, teasing Aragorn with the use of tongue and teeth against his knuckles. Then spoke.

"I am well enough. You need to save your strength. For the Council. My lord."

"Well enough that you lose to a stripling like Dernhelm?"

Boromir heard the laughter in Aragorn's voice but could not ignore what he said.

"Not a loss." Boromir turned Aragorn's hand, nipped at the base of his thumb, feeling his fingers curl in response. "One hit. After a fairly long bout." Ran his tongue along the crease, savoring the flavour, heard Aragorn breathe out, smiled against his skin.

Suddenly elated, encouraged by the closed door behind him, the sense of a few moments taken out of time, Boromir reached out, slid his other hand around Aragorn's neck to pull him closer.

Again, resistance, then sudden acquiescence, as Aragorn made a small sound of assent deep in his throat, a sound Boromir gloried in hearing as Aragorn's body, strong and pliant, met his. Another kind of practice.

Letting their joined hands drop and part, Boromir held Aragorn firmly by the neck as their mouths met. Warm lips, teasingly familiar from Lothlorien, opened under his.

Aragorn pressed forward, pushing Boromir back against the door, sliding one leg between his. Hands slid around Boromir's back, low, pulling their hips together, as tongues met, and Boromir slid his hands into Aragorn's hair, tangling them deep, holding his head still.

Part of Boromir could not believe what was happening, where it was happening, would once have scorned such a moment. But the larger part was rapt, learning the taste and smell and feel of love, the joy of discovery, exulting in this moment.

Releasing Aragorn's head, Boromir let his hands rove down, then up and under the loose shirt, gliding over smooth skin, pressing against firm muscles, tracing the springing line of Aragorn's back.

In response, Aragorn slid his hands under Boromir's tunic, pushing down inside his leggings, one in front, one behind. Boromir twitched, feeling the smooth glide down his cleft, the slow movement of palm sliding over his belly, lower, firmly folding around his straining member. Spread his legs wider, thrusting forward.

Feeling Aragorn's erection against him, Boromir slid his hand around and under, working to push between their two bodies, twisting, feeling Aragorn shift slightly, enough to allow him access. His fingers pressed between cloth and skin, reaching down without releasing Aragorn's mouth, tips brushing velvet softness. A moan, no way to tell whose.

Moving up and down, a shared rhythm, bodies tensing, mouths warmed as hands teased new sensations from root to tip.

Boromir's body tensed, clenching, as pressure built inside, to the time of his panting breaths, a rise and fall, higher with each breath, as pleasure grew, spiraled away from his control. He held his breath, hand still working Aragon, then as suddenly, came. Felt his legs give way under him as he slid down, still holding Aragorn tightly.

Some moments later, Boromir found himself lying, half propped against the door, legs tangled with Aragorn's who was wrapped around him in a sweaty glorious mess. He would be content to stay there, feeling echoes of pleasure subsiding, but reluctantly remembered what Aragorn had said.

"The Council meeting?"

Aragorn sighed, shifted his weight, sitting up, pushing his hair back from his face, pulling his shirt more or less straight. "Soon," he said. "We should be going."

"I need to change," Boromir noted, got his legs under him and rose. He extended a hand to Aragorn who accepted it, letting Boromir pull him up.

"So do I."

Boromir pulled Aragorn closer, claimed one last kiss, then said, "I told you I was fine."

"You have convinced me that you are healed," Aragorn said, straight-faced, "and no doubt will be able to defeat Dernhelm handily at your next bout."

Boromir sighed, swinging the door open and following Aragorn out. "He's a nice lad," Boromir said. "Who got lucky. Once."

"We shall see," Aragorn said, leading the way down the hall.

* * * * * * *

Daymeal that night was quieter than the night before, Boromir realized as he drained his tankard and pushed it, and his empty plate, away. Last night, the healing of Théoden had been celebrated. Tonight, the news that Théoden had ordered all to prepare to retreat to Helm's Deep was being spread. All in Edoras would leave early the next morning, the second hour after sunrise.

Boromir shared Aragorn and Gandalf's frustration with the king's decision. And yet he understood Théoden's reasoning as well. The news brought to Edoras by those sent from the villages in the Westemnet and the Eastemnet made it clear that many bands of roving Orcs and Dunlandings were abroad in the Riddermark. The people of the land were suffering, yet no single sortie could save them. To retreat to a well-defended place, to draw the multiple bands into a strike there, was a good tactical decision.

A silence fell over the tables at the front of the Hall, and Boromir looked up to see that the king had risen. A slim young woman, clad in shimmering blue, with blonde hair falling to her waist, came forward bearing a large golden cup.

"_Ferthu Théoden hál_. Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!"

After Théoden drank from the cup, she came to the table where Boromir, along with Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf, and Éomer were sitting. All rose. She offered the cup to Aragorn.

"Hail Aragorn son of Arathorn," she said.

"Hail Lady of Rohan!" he said as he took the cup and drank from it.

Boromir noted that Aragorn smiled as he looked upon her and the colour that rose in her cheeks as she looked back. He found himself watching her with new attention as she moved around the table, greeting each of the guests by name and offering them the cup.

He vaguely remembered seeing her at the feast last night but had not recognized her then. Éowyn! When he was last in Rohan, he had come to know her after he became involved with Éomer. His memory was of a coltish girl, all legs and arms, often clad in a boy's tunic and leggings, hair carelessly tied back, smudged with dirt and spending her time in the stables. She had resented Éomer's involvement with Boromir, he thought at the time, perhaps because of the loss of their parents, and was too young to hide it.

Now, grown to a stunning beauty, she approached him, last of all, her eyes down, to offer him the cup of wine.

"Hail Boromir son of Denethor."

Boromir took the cup from her hands and sipped after greeting her in return. Her voice seemed cold, her manner distant. When he returned the cup to her, he held it a moment, trying to win some recognition from her.

"Lady Éowyn, I am glad to see you again," Boromir said. "Would you care to join us?"

She did not look up when she replied. "My apologies, Lord Boromir. I have duties elsewhere."

Boromir flushed at the tone of her voice, allowed her to take the cup from him and sat, feeling rebuked.

Éomer said, "Sister, you can spare us a few moments, surely."

She hesitated, then sat next to him on the bench, still looking down.

After moments of silence, several conversations hastily began. Gandalf asked Éomer about his encounters with Saruman's Orcs, and Legolas and Gimli began another round of their debate concerning the relative virtues of axes compared to bows and knives. This topic was of great interest to them at least.

But chill silence seemed to surround Eowyn, sitting across the table from Aragorn and Boromir. He thought she seemed frozen, a far cry from the laughing, vital girl he remembered from a decade ago. Even though she had disliked him, her energy and openness had charmed him. He wondered what had happened to change her.

After what seemed an eternity during which Boromir passed from embarrassment to anger, the king rose and passed down the Hall to the great doors, calling to him the heralds and chiefs. Silence fell over the Hall.

"Behold, tomorrow I go forth, and it seems like to be my last riding. I have no child. Théodred my son is slain. I name Éomer my sister-son to be my heir. If neither of us return, then choose a new lord as you will."

The king and his chiefs left the Hall. In their wake, others began to leave. Gandalf rose and left, closely followed by Legolas and Gimli.

Aragorn spoke quietly, "Lady, what can you tell us of a young man named Dernhelm? We met him earlier today."

Boromir had to stand quickly as Éomer upset his goblet, wine streaming over the table.

Boromir helped Éomer clean up the mess as Éowyn spoke.

"He is a young relative of ours," she said. "From a distant line. He came to Edoras some years ago after losing his parents in an Orc raid. Why do you ask?"

Boromir sat again, wondering at the difference in her when she spoke to Aragorn. Her eyes shone as she looked at him.

Aragorn shrugged, "He seemed to be burdened by an unnamed sorrow," he said to Boromir's confusion.

He had not thought Dernhelm sorrowful. Shy perhaps. But then Aragorn tended to see more than most did.

"I would help him if I could," Aragorn continued.

She smiled. "That is kind of you, my lord. But I think Dernhelm would prefer to be left to deal with his problems on his own. Would you agree, brother?"

"Yes," Éomer said firmly. "He has always refused to live here, to trade on his relationship with us, preferring to go his own way. He is…somewhat older than he looks. He would not wish to be singled out, I think."

"Very well," Aragorn said. "I will do nothing…unless asked."

Boromir saw that Aragorn addressed his words mostly to Éowyn. Watching them all, Boromir was confused. He had the feeling that more was being communicated than was being said.

Éowyn rose, drawing the formal manner with which she had borne the cup to the king about her as a cloak, and bid them goodnight.

Boromir watched her as she left the Hall, passing silently through the columns to leave through a door that was behind the beautifully carved throne. She was a mystery to him, one that he found he wished to understand.

"Come," Aragorn said. "We had best go to our sleep." He stood, and Boromir hastily followed. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with Éomer.

As he and Aragorn walked to their room, Boromir tried to understand how it was that his life had gotten so much more complicated in ways that had nothing to do with the war.

* * * * * * *

Éowyn left the Hall through the side door near the throne. As soon as the door was shut, she stopped, leaned against the wall, and began to breathe easily again.

Aragorn had seen the truth behind Dernhelm. She was sure of it. In fact, remembering this morning, she thought he had seen it at the training ground. But he seemed to be promising her that he would not reveal her secret.

Boromir had not seen. She remembered him clearly from ten years ago, and did not think he had changed greatly since then. Both now and during his brief stay at the Golden Hall last summer, he seemed the same. Honest and open, uncomfortable talking to women, or perhaps only to her, but not one to lie or hide his feelings. Had he realized her deception, he would have spoken.

She remembered how he had been so taken with Éomer for a time although that seemed to have passed before he had left to return to Gondor. Even though she had treated him badly during his time with her brother, he had always been honest and kind to her. At thirteen years, all she had seem was a strange man who had stolen her brother's attention from her for a season or two. Now, she saw him with different eyes.

As well as Aragorn.

Éowyn realized she should return to her room. She still had to pack what she would take to Helm's Deep, and it was growing late. But even as she walked, moving through the familiar passages without seeing them, she could not stop thinking of this evening.

From a table across the room, she had watched the two of them sitting side by side, their shoulders touching. One dark, quiet but conveying the sense of great authority masked for a time. A dark green tunic, a large knife worn casually at his side, an unusual jewel at his throat. Silver and crystal, finely made, gleaming in the torchlit hall, it seemed more a woman's ornament. The other light to his dark, blond, carrying himself as he always had, as a lord's son, a warrior and leader of warriors, in a red and gold tunic of silk. Two who seemed to be always aware of each other, communicating with a look and a word. She wondered what their relationship was. It seemed closer than battle companions, reminded her of Éomer in his first days with Éothain.

Since her cousin's death a double handful of days ago, Éowyn had drowned in sorrow. Her brother's disagreement with Grima, his imprisonment, her uncle's illness, had been too much to bear. She had roused herself only once, when Wormtongue had approached her, offering his protection in the wake of her brother's disgrace. He was lucky she had not been wearing a knife at that moment.

And now, in a day, all had changed. The uncle and king she remembered from her girlhood, before Grima had arrived, had returned, healed. Like a fresh wind from the West blowing through a dark room, Gandalf and the others had arrived and the Eorlingas would go to war. And more than that, training with Boromir this morning, talking to Aragorn and Boromir this evening, she felt alive in a way that was new to her. Anything seemed possible now. Where before she had seen only one path, a dark one leading into endless night, now many opened before her. She did not think she could sleep this night.

Éowyn opened the door to her room and entered. The rich designs upon the floor, tapestries she had woven on the wall, shone in the light of the lamps. It was a beautiful room. But more than ever, it seemed to shrink in upon her. A cage. The loom sat in the corner of the room, a tapestry half-finished. The elaborately decorated chest contained dresses. The bed was narrow, a maiden's bed, she thought scornfully. She had been alone too long.

She looked around impatiently. She realized that she could go to Helm's Deep tomorrow leaving all in this room behind without a single regret except for the carved horse that sat upon a shelf on the wall, made by Théodred for her fourteenth birthday, and the gold necklace that had been her mother's.

Coming to a sudden decision, she left her room. She met no one as she left the Hall by a little-known back door and hurried to the stables. As always, she felt calmed by the horses, now dozing, unaware of what was going to happen in the morning. Windfola woke and nickered happily at her when she entered, and she stroked his nose, apologizing for not bringing him a treat. Then she went to the chest in the back of the stall and pulled out her gear. This was the most important thing she had to pack.

She would travel to Helm's Deep as Éowyn. But once there, she might choose to take on a different role than sitting with the women and children in the Caves. The time for that was over.

* * * * * * *

Boromir sat by Aragorn near one of the watch fires. By this first night of the retreat to Helm's Deep, he was learning how slow the journey would be. Many of the women and children as well as the older men were walking, and the horsemen had to match their pace in order to protect them. This day had been quiet with no threat, but Gandalf had advised them to set a watch.

Boromir was feeling unsettled. Too much had changed too quickly and, he admitted, some of it came from watching Aragorn earlier, walking beside Éowyn, talking. She was still refusing to look directly at Boromir or to speak any more than the most formal of words. Yet she talked to Aragorn as if they were old friends.

Attempting to sound as if he were only making idle conversation, Boromir asked, "What do you think of the Lady of Rohan?"

Aragorn smiled, but did not look at him. "She is…unusual. She intrigues me for there seems to be so much more to her than most see. And you?"

"I do not know. I remember her as a child, but she has changed so much. I think she still resents.." Boromir stopped himself, shocked. He had not meant to tell Aragorn about what had happened with Éomer.

"Resents what?"

Boromir could feel himself turning red and hoped that the darkness and firelight hid it from Aragorn. "When I was in Rohan ten years ago, I was…Éomer and I.."

Aragorn laughed, saving Boromir from having to say more. "I understand. You know, I never thought you an innocent. No more than I thought the hobbits were."

Boromir rolled his eyes, remembering their conversation about hobbits in Lothlorien and decided to challenge Aragorn in return.

"And what would the Lady Arwen think of your interest in Éowyn?" Boromir asked.

"I think she would also be intrigued by her," Aragorn said. "As she was by you."

"By _me_?" Boromir was stunned, remembering the luminous beauty of the Lady, clad in shimmering silver, her dark hair like the depths of a moonless night. She was as fair and distant as the evening star. He could not believe she had ever thought of him. "What do you..I mean, how do you know?"

"We talked, of course. She and I. She noticed how you watched us. Do you remember what I told you of the customs of Elves?"

"Yes, but.." Boromir did not know what to say. What Aragorn had spoken of that night in Lothlorien was so foreign that Boromir had not been able to consider how it might apply to him, what it would actually mean. If they even lived through the war.

"Such relationships are entered upon only when all are in agreement concerning their feelings for each other. That takes time, and no little effort, after all. And nothing can be accomplished without talking. What do you think of Arwen?"

"She is beyond compare," Boromir said simply. "But I have spoken to her so seldom. Until this moment, all I thought was that she would be my Queen. I had not dared think more than that." Boromir decided that dreams, half remembered in the morning light, did not count as thoughts.

Aragorn leaned forward, carefully placing more wood on the fire. "That may be for the best," he said quietly. "None of us can know what will come in these days of strife. We can dream, of course, but dreams so often vanish in the light of day."

Hesitant, Boromir offered what he could, hearing something in Aragorn's voice. "True," he said. "But I have seen how a dream can keep a man alive when all thought he would die."

Aragorn nodded, but said nothing.

They sat by the fire, silent, until their watch was over, then rolled themselves in cloaks and blankets to sleep.

* * * * * * *

Éowyn stood by Éomer as they watched Gandalf, sitting easily on Shadowfax without any gear, speaking to Théoden in the slanting light of dawn.

"Keep on your way to Helm's Deep, Théoden, for that is your road. But I must leave you for a while. I have an errand elsewhere. Await me at Helm's Deep!"

Moving like the wind made visible, Shadowfax sprang away, a flash of silver against the green of the plains, bearing Gandalf swiftly out of sight.

Éowyn sighed. She loved Windfola, but the sight of Shadowfax always left her unsettled. She had seen him rarely since he spent his days on the plains, roaming among the herds. But his line was honoured, descending from Felaróf, the horse of Eorl the Young, consenting to bear only the King of the Mark or his sons. She had learned the names of all the horses in his line. And although she had seen him only upon three occasions in her girlhood, she had chosen to weave his image into her first tapestry.

"It is time," Éomer said, mounting Firefoot.

Éowyn picked up Windfola's reins. The idea of riding Shadowfax was an idle dream, she told herself. She should focus on what needed to be done this day. Looking around, she saw a woman carrying an infant and trying to keep two others close to her as the march began.

Catching up to the unruly bunch, Éowyn offered the two children the chance to ride Windfola for a while. The offer was accepted eagerly by the boy and girl and gratefully by their mother.

* * * * * * *

Boromir was riding near the middle of the column later that day. Legolas and Gimli were scouting ahead, he knew, and Aragorn was riding next to Théoden at the head. Boromir could see the two men talking.

Boromir slackened the reins, allowing Fainala to slow. He breathed deeply, looking around. The rolling plains were green around him, lush with the first growth of spring. High above, white clouds, towering and ponderous, moved slowly across the blue vault of the sky. And ahead, the White Mountains loomed, their peaks among the clouds, hiding amongst rocky folds and stony heights the ancient fortress of Rohan.

On a day such as this, it was hard to remember that war was upon them. Hard to remember that his brother and Frodo were moving ever closer to Mordor, or so Boromir hoped. There were so many dangers in the Wild.

"Lord Boromir?"

The familiar voice was hesitant, questioning, yet Boromir was startled. He had not been aware of Éomer's approach.

Regretting his inattention, Boromir forced himself to smile at Éomer. "You used to call me Boromir," he said.

Éomer nodded, reining Firefoot in to walk next to Fainala.

Riding beside him, Boromir could not help remembering how Éomer had challenged him to a race so long ago. They had been cleaning tack and grooming horses, so had ridden without saddles, wearing only leggings and tunics, racing across the green grass. Éomer had won though Boromir had claimed it was only due to his light weight.

They had paused by a stream that ran under green grasses and water plants, sending a subtle music down the wind. And while their horses cropped the lush growth, he and Éomer had lain side by side on the grass, talking of Gondor and the Mark, the different lives of Men who could still be allies in the shared fight against evil.

Boromir could not recall who had reached out first, to touch, and then caress, and perhaps that did not matter. That afternoon was one of a handful of his treasured memories, green and golden, one of shared pleasure and caring.

The time was the start of a long season of love that had ended, not badly, but abruptly. Boromir still felt guilty about what had happened when Hirgon, one of the errand-riders of Gondor, had arrived to summon him home. His father had ordered him to return immediately to the White City to command the effort to retake Osgiliath.

Boromir could not stay the extra day or two in order to bid farewell to Éomer who was out with his cousin's _éored_, patrolling the Eastemnet. All Boromir could do was speak to Éowyn, leaving a message for her brother with her, one that was of necessity fairly formal.

Boromir still remembered how uneasy he'd felt under her straight blue gaze, as if he was betraying some trust. And perhaps he had been. To return ten years later and see the youth he remembered grown into manhood, in command of an _éored_, and now heir to the throne of Rohan, left Boromir unsure of how to speak to him, of what to say.

Realizing suddenly that Éomer had spoken to him and he had ignored him, Boromir turned red. "My apologies," he said.

Éomer smiled at him. "I only said that I was hoping to speak to you," he said.

"Yes?"

Boromir, seeing the smile, realized how Éomer had changed. The youth he remembered had smiled easily and laughed often. This man seemed grave, weighed down with cares beyond his age. Although when Boromir remembered how Théoden had looked before Gandalf first cured him, Éomer's solemn air was understandable.

Éomer reined Firefoot to the left, Fainala following, to put some space between the two of them and the people walking nearby.

"I have thought the past few days that you did not wish to speak to me," Éomer said. "Have I angered you?"

Boromir, surprised, sat back, inadvertently dropping the reins, and Fainala, beautifully responsive, halted. "No," he said. "Of course not. Why would you think that?"

Éomer halted Firefoot as well. "When we challenged you in the Eastemnet…"

Boromir shook his head, kneeing Fainala back into a walk. "Your country was at war though your King had not acknowledged it. Your duty was to halt strangers, to learn their business. I would have expected nothing less. Indeed, giving us horses to help us on our quest was more than generous."

Éomer seemed to relax, urging Firefoot ahead. "But then, why?"

Reluctantly, Boromir spoke. "You have never done anything to anger me. If I have avoided speaking with you alone, my own feelings are the cause."

This time it was Éomer who dropped his reins, causing Firefoot to halt. "I had not thought that you would still feel anything.."

Boromir halted Fainala, hoping fervently that the wind and their distance from the column kept anyone from hearing this conversation. "The feelings I speak of are regret, perhaps some guilt, Éomer, that I left so suddenly before. That is all."

Éomer visibly relaxed, smiling again. "Good. I mean….There is no need for you to feel guilt. I understood then why you had to leave. The Lord Denethor had summoned you. My sister gave me your message when I returned."

Boromir was relieved. He had upon occasion feared that Éowyn might say nothing although such suspicion did her less than honour.

Éomer picked up his reins, encouraging Firefoot to move forward. "Then all is well between us?"

Boromir encouraged Fainala to follow Firefoot. "Of course," he said.

"Good. Then I would ask you join us for daymeal when we halt for the night."

Boromir was dismayed. He had not thought of such a thing. But how could he say no?

"If you wish," he said.

"We can talk of earlier days," Éomer said. "It would cheer my sister who has borne so much of my uncle's care these past years."

Boromir stifled a sigh. Somehow he did not think sharing a meal with him would cheer Éowyn in any way.

* * * * * * *

Boromir sat cross-legged on the ground, his empty bowl in front of him. The night wind whispered through the tall grasses on the plains that stretched around them. They were camped near a small stream which provided fresh water. Reluctantly, Boromir had come to eat daymeal with Éomer and Éowyn. He'd asked Aragorn to accompany him, but his request had been met with a laughing refusal and the claim that he had to stand watch.

However, the meal had not gone as badly as he'd feared it would although most of the credit for that was due Éomer. Either he failed to notice Éowyn's silence or, Boromir was forced to admit, her quietness was her usual manner. Éomer had talked happily of the past throughout much of the simple meal, calling on the other two more for agreement or a missing detail than for conversation.

They sat close to one of the many cooking fires. Around them, others sat or lay, resting for the next stage of the march. As had been true every day, the food was part communal, part individual. Fires were built throughout the huge camp, with everyone who could contributing food, while one or two women oversaw each individual cooking pot.

Around the fires, watched by tired adults, children ran shrieking and laughing. Boromir wondered where their energy came from. They had spent the day walking alongside their parents, yet the children still ran and played. The first night, he had struggled with the impulse to order them to silence as he would a company of his men. Only his realization that the size of the train and the necessity to travel during the day made it unlikely that they could travel in secrecy had stopped him.

"Lord Éomer, the King asks you to attend him."

One of the King's guards from Edoras, mail shining in the firelight, bowed. Éomer set his bowl down, rose quickly, and, nodding farewell to Boromir and Éowyn, followed the man off into the dark.

Silence wrapped itself around Boromir. He had not considered he would have to be alone with Éowyn. He was not sure what to say. To give himself time, he reached out and refilled his bowl. The pot was full of the basic thick soup or thin stew that they'd been eating on the road. The first day or so there had been bread, brought from Edoras. Now, every night, water, grain, dried meat, and root vegetables were simmered together until edible. Boromir had noticed a range of results even with such simple foodstuffs.

Earlier, Boromir had not paid much attention to the food. Now, eating a bit more slowly, he was surprised at how good this meal tasted, how different it was from what he'd eaten previously.

"It's very good," he said, looking up from the bowl.

Éowyn smiled at him for the first time that night, the first time in days, he thought, her face and hair shining in the light from the fire. "Thank you," she said.

"_You_ made it?" Boromir spoke without thinking, cursed himself when he saw her face change.

"Yes, Lord Boromir, I did," she said, face flushing enough that he could clearly see her anger even in the uneven light of the flames. "I do not know what is expected of women in the court of Minas Tirith, but in Edoras, there is no great distance between the King's house and the people. My uncle's wife died young. I am the only woman in the House of Éorl of my generation. I oversee his household and work with the women. I have to know how to cook, clean, weave, and sew in order to make sure those jobs are done well, everything from storing food to serving it. I do not say I cook every day, but I have done so, to learn how to do what must be done well. Warriors could hardly fight without clothing, hot food, and someplace to sleep. No woman during these times can spend her life idling about like a courtly decoration."

Boromir clutched his bowl, fighting down his first anger at her assumptions about what he'd meant. In truth, she was not so wrong. But she was not entirely right either. He had no right to reply to her anger without trying to explain. He looked steadily at her.

"My apologies," he said quietly. "I did not mean to imply that you led an idle life. In truth, I know little of the lives of women in Gondor or elsewhere. Our mother died when I was ten. She.." he halted, swallowing.

Boromir rarely spoke of his mother to anyone. When she'd died, he had to care for Faramir, lost and grieving, repulsed by their father who was drowning in his own black wave of grief and had little time for children. Boromir had swallowed his own tears, comforted Faramir, and had thought the time for such grief long past. Now he was surprised by how close he had come to tears.

Éowyn's lips were still parted, her cheeks flushed, her hair loose and tumbling unnoticed over her shoulders and down toward her lap. After Boromir finished speaking, she was quiet a moment, then, pushing her hair back behind her ears, leaned forward. Still flushed, she seemed to finally look at him for the first time.

"I did not know. Forgive me," she said. "My mother died when I was seven, soon after my father was killed fighting Orcs. Éomer and I lived with my uncle and…..cousin."

Boromir remembered Théodred from his earlier visit, an able commander and heir, a strong warrior in his own right. Silent but not unfriendly. Certainly Boromir had known that Éomer and his sister's parents were dead, but he had not truly thought what that would mean for a girl, alone, until this time.

"I think we can both forgive the other, if there is even need to do so," he said. "I had not thought what your life must have been like then."

Éowyn shrugged a little, twisting her hair around her fingers. "It was not all sorrow," she said slowly, gazing into the fire as if at the past. "My uncle and cousin were kind, my cousin especially, to Éomer and to me. I grieved, certainly, but there was much to do which helped." After a pause, she looked at him again, blue eyes reflecting the dancing light. "And you?"

"Me?"

"What was it like for you and your brother--he's younger, is he not?--after your mother died?"

Boromir thought back as he had not in years to the bare and echoing halls of the Citadel, white stone pure and shining, black columns, huge doors. Servants clad in black robes moving silently about duties. Silence for the most part, echoing through the rooms, that had before seemed filled with light, music, and flowers. Nothing had really changed in the place, he knew, but love had died.

"Lonely," he said, slowly. "Though I did not realize that then. We soon began to learn our duties as pages, then as squires, then warriors, training together. Faramir was only five and, I think….more like our mother than I. And perhaps too young for what our…for what was expected of him. It's so long ago now that it is hard to remember."

Éowyn nodded. "Although sometimes it feels as if it were only yesterday," she said, almost as if speaking to herself.

Boromir closed his eyes, trying not to let the pain he felt show. Perhaps it did, but he could not afford this weakness.

They sat in silence a while long while around them people arranged bedding and settled down to sleep for as much of the night as they could.

Boromir stood, walked around the fire, and knelt besides Éowyn, taking her hand. Startled, she looked at him, eyes wide, silent. He kissed her hand, held it a moment. "I am glad we had this chance to talk, Lady." he said. "I had thought you were angry at me because of what happened when I was last in Rohan. But tonight gives me hope that is no longer true."

She shook her head. "I have never been angry at you, Lord Boromir."

Boromir smiled, relieved, then bid her good night. He rose and returned to where his bedding was waiting for him. Aragorn would call him when the watch changed.

He did not see how Éowyn watched him as he left her.

* * * * * * *

The last day of the march, Boromir kept to himself. The clouds above had thickened, a cold wind blowing from the East. He was reluctant to talk to anyone, feeling as if danger from within and without was too close. The others around him seemed to share this feeling, and the large train moved as quickly as they could to Helm's Deep. If all went well, they would arrive there sometime the next day. And then things would become simpler, Boromir thought, if more dangerous.

* * * * * * *

Éowyn shifted the basket she had slung over her shoulder and paused to catch her breath. Before her, Helm's Deep loomed dark as a thundercloud in the morning light. Around her, people of Edoras greeted the sight with glad cries, glad to see safety within reach at last. The stronghold, long a refuge of the people of the Mark, showed signs of recent repair. Smoke rose over the Deeping Wall hinting that some had already gained refuge. Éowyn hoped that the mother of Éothain and Alfreda was there.

The last night or two had been long, the howling of wargs heard from afar and the lights of burning villages seen on the horizon. But the journey from Edoras had passed without incident. They were safe, or soon would be, inside the stout walls.

Slowly, Éowyn began walking down the hill. She told herself that her fears were groundless. But when she passed through the gate, she could not help shivering at the chill she felt in the shadows.

Crowds of people, old and ill sitting patiently against the walls, children running and crying, mounds of supplies piled carelessly, some likely to spoil, met her eyes when she had climbed the steps to the Keep. Her uncle and brother, the lords Aragorn and Boromir, and the other men, went inside immediately to plan how best to defend the Keep. Éowyn twisted her hair into a knot to keep it out of her face and started trying to organize the people and food as best she could.

* * * * * * *

Later that night, tired and aching but unable to stay in the Caves, Éowyn slipped into one of the back storerooms. Earlier, she had left the basket that contained her gear hidden under a layer of potatoes here. Stripping her clothes off, she braided her hair and donned Dernhelm's armour and weapons by feel in the dark.

She left the storeroom for the corridors, dimly lit by torches. As she was turning a corner, she nearly ran into a tall figure who cursed, then caught her before she fell.

"All should be on the walls or in the court, man! What are you doing here?"

Éowyn tensed as she recognized Éomer's voice. He stepped to one side, and cursed again when he saw her face in the light of the nearest torch.

" Éowyn!"

"Dernhelm, brother," she said.

"What are you doing? You should be in the Caves! Return at once. This is no time for playing."

Éowyn let loose the reins she had long kept on her temper at those words from her brother. She stepped forward, placed both hands on his chest and shoved, exulting in the noise when his armoured back hit the stone wall.

"I loved Théodred as much or more than you. And his was not the only funeral in recent days. How many have died? I will not sit in a cage and make bandages when I can fight."

Éomer opened his mouth to speak, but Éowyn did not stop, her rage burning her exhaustion away. "You cannot order me, _Lord_ Éomer! But if you wish, go to the King and tell him what I have done, what _you_ know I have done, these past years. I have not been playing. If he orders me to retreat to the Caves, I will obey. But think on this. I have had more weapons training than the village men who now stand against Saruman's hordes. But even if I had not, how much more dangerous is it for me to be fighting Orcs armed with a sword than to be sitting in a dress in the Caves waiting for the Orcs to break in?"

Éomer flushed, red mottling his cheeks. "They will not defeat us," he said, hotly in turn.

"I have heard the scouts' reports. I know what comes against us," Éowyn said. "Choose, brother."

Silence filled the hallway as Éowyn waited, hands clenched. Finally, Éomer bowed his head and stepped away, gesturing for her to go ahead of him down the hallway that led to the courtyard.

Éowyn waited until he looked up, kissed him on the cheek. And Dernhelm went out to join the defense of Helm's Deep.

* * * * * * *

Boromir was standing on the Deeping Wall, watching the courtyard below. He was still amazed that Elves had come to Helm's Deep. Such a thing had not been heard of in this age. It was as Aragorn had said, that all the Free Peoples of Middle-earth must join to defeat the Nameless Enemy.

As he turned to watch the archers who were joining the Rohirrim on the battlements, Boromir blinked. He could not believe what he thought he was seeing. It had to be the darkness. He squinted, trying to see in the uncertain light of the cloud-shadowed Moon. The air around him bore the feel of approaching rain.

Aragorn soon returned from overseeing the formation of the fighters in the courtyard and stood next to Boromir, elbows on the battlements. Bormir turned to look out over the valley as well.

Far down the valley, they could see the thickly clustered lights of torches carried by Saruman's army approaching. The scouts coming in late that afternoon had reported that the combined Uruk-hai and Men amounted to an astounding force, some ten thousand strong they estimated.

But for now, Boromir was consumed by what he thought he had seen. He looked around, noting that most of the warriors around them were Rohirrim, although Legolas and Gimli were also close.

"Aragorn," he began, unsure of what to say.

Aragorn looked at him, head tilted.

"The Elven warriors," Boromir started. "Are they…I thought I saw…but it cannot be."

"What?" Aragorn asked.

"Women!" Boromir said, trying to keep his voice down. "There are women in their ranks, are there not?"

"Naturally," Aragorn said.

Boromir had been sure that Aragorn would deny what seemed to be a completely unnatural situation. That it was simply the finely drawn features and flowing hair of the Elves in the uneven light that had mislead Boromir.

"Naturally?"

Aragorn turned to face him, still leaning at his ease against the wall of the battlements. "Of course. In these perilous times, all Elves train for war. The force that Haldir brought to help with our defense is made up of volunteers from Rivendell and Lothlorien. It is not surprising that some of them are women."

"Does the Lady Arwen--" Boromir could not finish the sentence. As he remembered the slim figure in the shimmering white dress, shining with an unearthly power, and tried to imagine her wielding sword or bow, he felt as he had once when he was on a sortie near the Ephel Duath and had felt the tremors of the ground beneath his feet as Orodruin belched forth fire and ash that could be seen for days.

Smiling, Aragorn nodded. "She does. She considered joining our training sessions with the Hobbits, but we thought that her presence would be too distracting. For some."

Boromir said nothing. "Distracting" would not have been the word he would have chosen for such a sight. He found himself wishing he could have seen it nonetheless.

Aragorn continued, gesturing toward the approaching forces. "And do the Men of Gondor know that many of the Orcs who fight for Sauron are females? Even less than Elves do the Orcs distinguish between male and female. I do not know of Saruman's forces, for the Uruk-hai he sent against us seem a new breed."

"No," Boromir said. "We did not know that."

"Lord Aragorn!"

Éomer joined them. "Théoden King would like to speak with you briefly before the battle begins."

Aragorn nodded then, after Éomer had left, turned to speak to Boromir. "And here is one more thing to think on, my friend," he said softly. "This afternoon we armed not only the men of the villages, but lads, boys as young as twelve. Standing with us against the enemy are farmers and stable boys with no training in the weapons they hold. They are brave, I doubt not. And will die to defend this Keep. Yet there are women in the Caves who are as strong or stronger than those boys. And none of you thought of arming them."

Boromir stood and watched Aragorn leave, moving easily through the ranks of men and elves on the battlements to join Théoden where he and the men of his Guard stood, high above the Gate, to oversee the defense of Helm's Deep. It was true. Scattered among them indeed were boys not much older than Boromir had been when his mother had died. But he still rebelled against the idea of a woman fighting.

Turning to face the force that would soon be assaulting Helm's Deep, feeling the first sting of rain against his face, Boromir tried not to think of what would happen in the Caves if the enemy did break through the Deeping Wall and take the Keep.

* * * * * * *

Boromir leaned against the rough stone, panting. The fighting had been fierce. He and Gimli had left the battlements to help defend the entrance to the Caves when the Orcs had blasted through the wall. Aragorn and Éomer had been drawn off to defend the Gate when the attackers had broken it earlier.

Now in the mouth of the Deep, a mixed band of elves and men stood off wave after wave of attackers. The ground under their feet was slippery with the water from the Deeping pool and with blood. But at least the rain had stopped.

Hearing the deep-throated chanting beyond the wall, Boromir stood, readying himself for another assault. This night had been long, beyond any in his experience, and he hoped only to see the light of dawn. Behind him, stabled in the Caves, he could hear the horses. Further beyond, much deeper and, he hoped, safer, would be the women and children.

"Come," Boromir said to the others around him. "Let us stand our ground." And moved forward to meet the Orcs pouring through the hole in the wall.

As often happened, once the fighting began, Boromir lost all sense of time. He focused entirely on the present of the fight. The clashing of swords and shrieking of wounded surrounded him, the noise a solid wall. Boromir fought steadily, more concerned with holding the ground they had than moving forward. They needed to defend the entrance to the Caves at all cost. Moving forward would only put their smaller force at risk.

An Orc leaped forward to engage him. Blocking the oncoming sword with his shield, Boromir thrust, killing the Orc in one blow. Bracing himself, Boromir pulled back to free his sword, but it caught in the Orc's armour. Trapped for a moment, Boromir saw the dripping sword coming at his head, realized he could not block this blow.

At the last moment, another sword hit the first, knocking it aside, then sliding forward to kill the Orc. Boromir concentrated on retrieving his sword, found himself breathing again, and braced to keep fighting. He could spare neither energy or concentration to thank the man who'd saved his life.

But this had proved to be the last sortie. Above the walls, the sky lightened. A ringing blast sounded from the hills outside. The Orcs remaining inside the wall hesitated, then withdrew.

Defenders on the battlements above cheered, shouting "Erkenbrand!"

Boromir paused, wary, unable to believe that another attempt to breach the Caves would not be made. Beside him, a slim figure stood, silent, watching the gaping hole in the wall through which so many Orcs had poured. Boromir was sure the man beside him was the one who'd killed the Orc earlier. Behind them, the others who'd survived also stood and watched. Around them, far too many of the men and elves lay dead on the wet ground.

"Who is Erkenbrand," Boromir asked, not really expecting an answer.

"The Lord of the Westfold," said the man next to him.

Surprised, Boromir looked down to see Dernhelm, braids damp with dark Orc blood, shield dented.

"Rumours said he was dead, his men driven back from the Fords of Isen," Dernhelm continued, setting his shield down and sheathing his sword. "Apparently rumour lied."

Boromir nodded, roughly wiping his sword on his surcoat before sheathing it. There would be time later to clean everything. Apparently they were not going to die.

Around them, defenders of Helm's Deep began to pour through the gaping holes in wall and gate, shouting. Distantly, Boromir heard Gandalf's name being called by many.

"Shall we go see what is happening?" Boromir asked.

Dernhelm nodded and began to lead, picking his way over the piles of dead bodies, Orcs, Men and Elves, all dead.

As they neared the stair that led to the walkway along the top, Dernhelm tripped on one of the bodies and fell forward onto it, landing on his hands and knees.

Leaning down to give him a hand up, Boromir found himself steadying the young man as he vomited. When he finished, Dernhelm pulled away, standing, wiping his mouth and looking away.

Boromir held out his waterbottle which had a few swallows of water left. Flushed, mumbling an apology, Dernhelm took it, rinsed his mouth and face.

"Your first?" Boromir asked after the youth had a moment to recover.

Dernhelm nodded head still turned away.

"I did the same thing," Boromir said. They began climbing the stairs. "Most of us do. It was you, wasn't it, who saved my life."

A pause, and then Dernhelm said, "Yes."

"That was well done," Boromir said. "I would hope you would remember that from this day. Do not dwell on what happened after."

They reached the top of the battlements and fell silent, seeing in the green valley beyond the forest, ranks of trees filling the mouth of the valley and spreading to the feet of the hills beyond. The shining figure of the White Rider and the hosts of Rohirrim poured down from the hills, and, caught in this trap, the hosts of Saruman wailed.

Boromir stood watching. At another time, he might have gone forth to join the last harrying of the Orcs. But now, tired and aching, he stood beside Dernhelm and watched the victorious meeting of forces in the light of a fair morning.

* * * * * *   
_**Isengard**_

Outside the ruined walls of Isengard, Boromir waited patiently, standing beside Fainala, for Théoden to finish speaking with Merry and Pippin. They were talking of Ents, of Treebeard. The trees that had come to Isengard, whatever they were called, were apparently not the same as "Ents." Yet the presence of that forest which they had ridden through, hearing the creaks and groans in the dark to either side of the path, as well as the destruction of Isengard was clear proof to Boromir that there was yet another Power in the world that Gondor had taken no account of in the long years of their war against the Enemy.

He pushed aside the thought of the Ents for the moment to enjoy the sight of Merry and Pippin at ease on the ruined walls of Isengard. Their bright clothing was torn and stained, but Pippin still had his scarf, and Boromir could see no wounds beside the healing cut on Merry's forehead. Gandalf had reassured them of the young hobbits' safety when they had met in Fangorn. But seeing them smiling and eating again made his heart glad. In fact, they looked much better than he would have expected, given their captivity by the Orcs.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing aloud when Merry started to lecture the King of the Riddermark on pipe-weed. What made it even funnier was that Boromir had heard the same lecture, only much longer, when Faramir had made the mistake of asking Merry what he knew about the herblore of the Shire.

But he would gladly listen to the whole thing again, thought Boromir, just to spend time with them, a boon he had not foreseen happening here on the edge of ruin. And so soon after the victory at Helm's Deep, to see Isengard, a fortress crafted of magic and technology by the Numenoreans, reduced to rubble made Boromir feel he had stepped out of the light of day into the mists of legend. To know that his young friends had played a part in the destruction was even more astonishing.

"Farewell," Théoden told the hobbits and rode off with Gandalf to meet with Treebeard. The Riders who had escorted the King went with him, but Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli were left to enjoy the reunion with their friends.

Gimli was still muttering into his beard about the food and pipe-weed the two had as they clambered down off the huge blocks of stone upon which they had rested. Pippin leaped to the ground first and dashed over to Boromir who dropped Fainala's reins and knelt, hugging Pippin and then Merry.

"You're well," Pippin said, standing back a little to look at him. "We thought you'd been terribly injured. Gandalf gave us little news. We weren't even sure you were alive! What of Faramir? What of your wound? What happened after we were taken captive? Do you know what happened to Frodo?"

Aragorn intervened at this point, laying a hand on Pippin and Merry's shoulders and drawing them away.

"Gently, my friends," he said. "We have ridden long and hard for many days, and fought a battle. Let us sit and eat and talk in peace while we can. You can ask all that you wish, but one question at a time, if you please."

Boromir rose to his feet, wondering if he misremembered or if it was possible that his friends had grown in their short absence. He followed them into the shadows of the gate to help them bring out the food they had promised Gimli.

After all had eaten to their heart's content and Merry and Pippin had shared the pipeweed they had found with Aragorn and Gimli, Boromir and Legolas refusing as they always did, they sat and talked. All had stories to tell, and all were eager to hear what the others had to say of the breaking of their Fellowship and what had followed.

Boromir let Aragorn tell Merry and Pippin what they thought and knew of Faramir and Frodo's acts at Parth Galen and listened carefully to their story of their captivity and escape, their meeting with Treebeard, and what they had seen of the battle at Isengard. Gandalf had hinted that the hobbits' arrival in Fangorn would prove to be important. But even so, Boromir was amazed to hear what they had done. And how lighthearted they were about their deeds.

After all the tales had been told, Aragorn led them into Isengard and across the ruined and flooded space inside the circling walls to rejoin Gandalf and Théoden as they approached Orthanc to speak to Saruman.

* * * * * * *

The sun was setting behind the western mountains when Boromir rode with the others away from Isengard. They would ride to the end of the valley then camp, resting before they started their journey to Dunharrow and the muster of Rohan by hidden ways in the mountains.

Boromir heard the others discussing these plans but said nothing. He felt numb, shaken, by the words of Saruman. He rode with his reins lose, head down. He had much to consider in the words of Saruman.

_As they stood at the top of the steps and spoke with the former Head of the White Council, he sought to woo the leaders, speaking in honeyed tones, attempting to sway all by the magic of his voice. Boromir had not thought his presence would be noted among so many. But after Saruman had failed to tempt Théoden into the tower, the wizard turned dark eyes upon Boromir._

_"Much have I heard of Boromir, son of Denethor, the Lord and Steward of Gondor," Saruman said, leaning upon his staff, his face calm and grave. "Made High Warden and Captain-General at such a young age. Your prowess in war, in the re-taking of Osgiliath and the holding of the River, has been sung about even west of the mountains. I have long since visited your City and been a friend and ally to your father, Prince. Surely you can be as mighty in making peace as you are in making war. Will you not come up to me as the friend I know you long to be? Help me to convince these nobles, as one who will rule them in future, that I am a friend to Gondor and to Rohan. I would have this conflict end, would save you from the ruin that threatens all."_

_Boromir felt dizzy, the sun dazzling in his eyes, as he listened to the voice drifting down from above, melodious and delightful. The appeal moved him deeply. Surely peace would be best. Swaying, Boromir began to raise his foot to step up to the door of the Tower when a hand was laid on his left shoulder, a hand warm and strong, offering support but not holding him. Boromir blinked, suddenly ill, swallowing hard to keep from vomiting. What was he thinking? Saruman was allied with the Nameless Enemy Boromir had been fighting all his life. Nothing Saruman said could be trusted. He brought only death, or slavery for those not fortunate enough to die. Boromir's shoulder ached under Aragorn's hand._

_"No, Saruman," he said, after coughing to clear his throat. His own voice sounded harsh in his ears after the music from the tower. "I have seen the peace you offer as I fought beside Gondor's true friends in Helm's Deep. Gondor will have nothing to do with you. My father will hear of your false dealing from me when I return."_

_"Go then, braggart and coward," Saruman spat at him. "Crow on your dunghill, young cock. But do not think you bring any news to your father he does not already know."_

What Saruman had tried to do with Boromir, he had tried with others, the King and Gandalf. But the final words Saruman had hurled at Boromir seemed different. The insult, certainly, all had been insulted, their courage or their ancestors. But what did it mean, that the tale of Saruman's falseness was already known to Lord Denethor? How could that be?

Boromir thought of his father's face as they discussed the meaning of the Riddle, speculating on what Isildur's Bane might be. His father loved Gondor, Boromir knew, and would protect the people and land no matter what enemy threatened. But of late, he had seemed different. Tired. Weary. Near despair at times. Spending long hours at night in the White Tower, poring over old scrolls, searching the lore of Gondor for aught that might aid their efforts.

As they halted for the night, not far from the road, in a dale that was protected from the wind, Boromir looked up. He realized how lucky he had been. If Fainala had not been a horse trained by the Rohirrim, his inattention would probably have allowed her to stray away from the group.

Boromir dismounted, leading Fainala over to where the horselines were being set up. He'd groom her then see to her feeding. He hoped that whatever hours they spent here tonight would be undisturbed. He felt the need of sleep as he rarely had before, in either war or peace.

Smiling, Boromir called a greeting to Pippin after Aragorn had set him down on the ground and led Hasufel to the horselines as well.

Unusually, the young hobbit did not smile or return the greeting. Instead, he frowned, fidgeting restlessly around the Riders who were attempting to set up camp and build a fire. He was rubbing his hands together.

Boromir bent over to check Fainala's hooves, shrugging. He'd have a chance to speak with Pippin later, over daymeal, no doubt. You could count on a hobbit never to miss a meal.


End file.
